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JOHN GILDART 



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SECOND EDITION 



New York: WILLIAM H. YOUNG AND COMPANY 
27 Barclay Street igoi 

London: R. and T. WASHBOURNE, i8a Paternoster Row 






By tTR' 

77^1te HoUf».' 



Copyright, 1 901, by 
M. E. HENRY-RUFFIN 



All rights reserved. 



Entered at Stationers' Hall, London 



TO 

MY ALMA MATER 

ST. JOSEPH'S ACADEMY, EMMITSBURG, MARYLAND, 

WITH AN INSPIRING MEMORY 

OF NATURE IN ITS NOBLEST PHASES, 

AND WITH A REVERENTIAL GRATITUDE 

FOR ALL THAT WAS ELEVATING 

IN ITS INFLUENCE, PRECEPT AND EXAMPLE, 

I DEDICATE 

THIS WORK. 



JOHN GILD ART. 



Virginia ! Beloved of the mountains ! we 

bend 
To thy lofty-browed beauty in homage and 

hail. 
Superb in the cloudland, all majesty's awe 
On the crown of thy crests shall not fail. 
With their blush when the bridegroom sun 

uplifts 
With luminous touch, the morning's veil ; 
On through the noonglow's throbbing sea, 
When isles of purple shadow sail ; 
Or flamed with the track of the sunset fire, 
When the drooping torches of twihght trail ; 
Or solemnly still for the silver step 
Of the gliding moonbeam, pure and pale ; 
The sunlight's shadow sanctified ; 
The dead day's spirit purified. 
S 




I- ^5 

r. ^ 



JOHN GIL DART. 6 

I. 

A mountain way, a russet thread that wound 
Ambitious from the valley's low content, 
To cloud-embarrassed precipice. Midway 
Beside the path, a modest cottage stood 
As though it halted in its white repose, 
Nor higher wished to dare. The sunset flames 
Had faded to the ashes of gray eve. 
When up the path, a horse and riders came : 
A mountain farmer with his mountain 

bride : 
The cot their quiet goal. Their steed forgot 
The steep ascent and double burden, when 
He took the air of home into his breath. 
John Gildart gave him rein — happy to feel 
The nearness of his home ; happier still, 
The clasp of two dear hands ; happiest of all, 
That Ruth and home and happiness were his. 

Just as the quiet beehive grows aloud, 
With all its buzzing life, at the first crash 



JOHN GIIvDART. 7 

Of honey-seekers, at the horseman's tread^ 
The cottage broke from stillness into sound, 
Kinsman and friend and neighbor welcoming 
John Gildart and the bride he brought across 
The Carolina border. 

To the door, 
Last, slowly tottering, two age-bowed forms, 
And John said gently : " Father, this is 

Euth ! " 
And still more gently: "Mother, this is 

Ruth ! " 
The girl's sweet eyes so sought a welcome in 
Their faces, that the old man's heart, straight- 
way. 
Went after John's ; the mother, too, almost 
Forgave her usurpation, when she spoke. 
And then was swept the merry human tide 
Back to the cottage and the feast began : 
The wedding merriment of mountaineers. 
While Ruth sat pondering at the cordial 
board, 



JOHN GILDART. S 

Her eyes and thoughts going from face to 

face, 
Trying to hide the wonder that they all 
Were unfamiliar ; then remembering who 
Was at her side, she sent her brave, true smile, 
A gentle messenger, unto his friends. 
And won her place among them. 

Through the night. 
Upon the silver silence of the hills, 
The little cottage flashed out like a gem. 
With all its gleaming windows to the sky. 
And when the stars went out beyond the 

night, 
To call Aurora from behind the heights, 
And bid her bring the morning, one by one 
Left friend and kinsman, for their homes, 

or up. 
Or down, or o'er the ceaseless crests. And 

Kuth, 
Enthroned by love, with gentle conquest, took 
Possession of the kingdom of her home. 



JOHN GIIvDART. 9 

Home coming ! Strange rite that breaks 
and that binds 
One life, in all that in life is the best. 

O faith of a woman ! how fate ever finds 
For her feet a new threshold, her heart, a 
new rest. 

Or cottage or palace or peasant or queen, 
She knows, as she greets the strange portals, 
her reign 
Has begun ; her throne mounted ; or 
mighty or mean. 
Love-sceptred, the home is now her domain, 

! the brave faith that falters not, step' 
ping firm o'er 
Into the new life ; and whether it send 
Sunlight or shadow across the strange 
door, 
The veiled future is met, like the face of a 
friend. 



JOHN GII.DART. lo 

Peaceful the tranquil mountain days that 

wound 
Into weeks, like an untroubled stream, nor 

saw 
The rocks that wait to wreck its happy 

course. 
The summer died ; and autumn's faded court, 
That came in crimson splendor, shivering 

left, 
Then winter's white kiss rested on the 

hills, 
Until they felt the warmer lips of spring. 
And as the year began its fresh young 

life, 
Came the fruition of a hope, a great 
New joy to Ruth ; a great strange pride to 

John ; 
And over all the smiling hills was known 
No prouder father and no happier wife. 
No more important patriarch o'er the 

hills, 



JOHN GII.DART. ii 

No wiser grandame through the valleys 

found, 
Than John and Ruth and the old sire and 

dame, 
When friend and kinsman gathered once 

again 
To give their welcome to the new-born son. 
All through the blossoming Spring, day after 

day, 
Ruth sat before the cottage, with her babe. 
Her eyes now on her needle, now upon 
A moving speck far down the hillside, that 
She knew was John. And sometimes, los- 
ing him 
In the blue ether of the fields below, 
The girl would stand, shading her love-sw^eet 

eyes. 
To follow surer where her thoughts had led. 
Then finding him, would hold her baby up 
High in her arms, as some brave soldier 

might 



JOHN GII.DART. 12 

Uplift the standard of his fealty, 

For friend to recognize ; and loyal John, 

Down in the valley fields, would look and see 

Saluting heartily the living sign. 

Then Kuth would drink the nectar in the 

air, 
That flooded all the April-haunted crests ; 
And worship in her simple woman's soul, 
The wondrous, sacred beauty of the hills ; 
And feel her spirit lifted up to meet 
Their ancient mystery ; yet all the while 
Resting her heart upon its ow^n repose. 

Within the cot the old man sat and read, 
And the old mother's ceaseless needles shone, 
As the gray worsted took a shape and grew. 
Then when the self-assertive clock began 
To reach its longer hours, sweet Ruth would 

leave 
Her vigil at the door and place her boy 
Upon the sheepskin at the old folks' feet. 



JOHN GILDART. 13 

There he would look as wise as wisdom's self, 
Receiving with all due complacence then 
The wonder and the pride they both be- 
stowed 
So artlessly upon him ; willing, too. 
To share approvingly their faith, that he 
Was marvellous beyond all babyhood. 
While Ruth's light step went on in busy 

way, 
Speeding the simple noonday cheer for hnn 
Who climbed the mountain track, his heart 

aglow 
With thoughts that ran like heralds of the 

feast 
That waited him in Ruth's dear greeting and 
His baby's kiss. 

So sped their happy days. 
So speeds the wild bird's flight, with urgent 

wing ; 
Nor sees the coming shot that soon will 
lower 



JOHN GILDART. 14 

Its aerial life ; and wounded, leave its hours 
Of ether, panting moments in the dust. 

II. 

Slowly, but with a saddened certitude, 
Into Ruth's simple mind the knowledge grew 
That John was bearing all alone some weight 
Of painful doubt, some burden deemed too 

great 
For her ; and Brutus' Portia never strove 
With gentler patience to unlock his lips ; 
More lovingly rebelled 'gainst the unfair, 
Unequal bond that gave her no due part 
Of wifely sympathy in every need. 

All through the later summer days and 

through 
The briefer autumn light, John labored on, 
Heaping the ripened corn that amber shone 
About his barn ; heaping the mellow hay. 
Upon whose spicy waves the summer's heart 



JOHN GII.DART. i5 

Throbbed out : sheafing the royal, sun-rich 

wheat 
Into pale golden promises of bread ; 
A kingly largesse, meant to conquer want : 
Labored and strove as if the hunger fiend 
Pursued him, or the tyrant greed had bound 
Him to a ceaseless servitude. And Euth, 
Keeping sad wonder from her lips, would 

seek 
The meaning of the toil that robbed his days 
Of peace, devouring all his restful sleep 
With sodden weariness. Her hands would 

ask. 
In loving touches and each mute caress 
Was eloquent with tender inquiry. 
At last the grain was harvested, and heap 
On heap the sheaves were gilded, mailed 

hosts 
Armed for a victory, 'gainst winter's dearth. 
Then when the fields no longer claimed his 

care, 



JOHN GII.DART. i6 

John made swift journeys to the county 

town ; 
But left within it none of all the weight 
That burdened him. And when Ruth 

watched at eve, 
The twilight mountains, all their magic 

failed, 
To see him come, so weary, brow-bent, home. 
Long through the night, when wonder ban- 
ished sleep. 
She heard the old man's voice, as he and 

John 
Balanced some weighty question. Once she 

heard 
John's eager voice, in sad decision rise : 
" father ! I must go ! for you, yourself, 
Would not forbid me," and a sigh was all 
The old man's answer. Through the hours 

that cry 
Deadened, in Ruth's sad sense, all other 

sound. 



JOHN GIIvDART. 17 

" father ! I must go ! " '' Whither ? " she 

asked, 
The terror that could only tell her, John . 
And she must part. 

And yet the answer came. 
Too soon ; yet still it came. One ashen eve 
That shut the autumn light from view, John 

rode 
Brow lower bent and drooped with heavy 

thought, 
The stalwart form upon the sober steed, 
That took his master's mood. John slowly 

rode 
Back from the valley town, where law and 

news 
Were equally distributed ; rode up 
The russet mountain track, now musical 
With crisp brown leaves. And never seemed 

his home. 
Such heart's repose, as in the fading light, 
The little cottage smiled in white relief 
2 



JOHN GILD ART. i8 

Against the purple, evening-shadowed crests. 
The mountaineer's strong heart, with yearn- 
ing faint, 
Noting the sweet, familiar form that stood 
Upon the threshold waiting him ; and to 
His wistful gaze, a guardian presence seemed 
That should have shielded that white home 

from harm. 
Silent, he took their baby from her arms ; 
And led her to the cottage ; silent, stern, 
The strong heart seeking for its stolen 

strength. 
Before it trusted treacherous speech. Beside 
The fire, the old man and his mother sat, — 
And borrowed from its glow the warmer 

life 
That left their veins with youth. 

John speechless stood 
Before them, holding still the babe, as if 
Somehow it helped him in this saddest strait 
To look upon his boy, remembering, 



JOHN GILDART. 19 

He now must pledge the answer that the 

years 
Would ask him in the manhood of his son. 
The deep lines on his face, without a word, 
Answered the old man's sadly seeking glance. 
The mother's needles ceased their industry ; 
The age-unsteadied hands folded at rest. 
Prefacing resignation's need. Ruth crept 
Closer to John ; and pressed an earnest hand 
Upon his arm, sending him in the touch. 
Her full heart's meed of wifely sympathy. 
Was that her John speaking in that new, 

tense, 
Self-trampled voice ? 

''Father! Mother ! Ruth! 
My baby boy ! We are so happy in 
Our little home. The great hills, towering 

stand 
About us like strong sentinels, to guard 
The lives beneath their solemn shade. So far, 
So high in heaven's smile, our quiet home. 



JOHN GILDART. 20 

That all the clamors of the noisy world 
Are only breathless whispers, when they 

climb 
Our peaceful altitudes. There sometimes 

comes 
A summons, in the whisper, faintly clear, 
That no man's soul can shrink from answer- 
ing. 
However far away, however faint, 
The echo of that call, it must be heard— 
And it has come to me. Virginia calls 
Aloud to all her manhood, and shall I, 
Child of her brave old hills, not heed her 

voice ? 
True, I am far away ; and none would 

seek 
A simple farmer in his sky-pitched home 
In these defiant hills. But can I hear 
My Mother-State, in silence, when she cries 
In all her need, to all her sons ? ISTo ! No ! 
What answer give the future of my boy 



JOHN GILDART. 21 

When his young manhood asks : ' And where 

were you, 
My father, when our country called ; and all 
Virginia's sons responded ? ' my wife ! 
Our little year has been so plentiful 
In happiness, so soon to close ; but, Ruth, 
You would not bid me linger to prolong 
The happiness that might grow bitter to 
The coward consciousness." 

Ruth sought to speak ; 
But the strong pain rose up and slew her 

voice, 
*' Father ! Mother ! My boyhood's proudest 

dream 
To reach the day, when all my fresh, young 

strength 
Could take your burdens, only leaving you, 
A peaceful sense of life's secure decline, 
Is broken with the later dreams for Ruth 
And for my boy. Why say I more ? The 

sharp, 



JOHN GILDART. 22 

Clear sound of battle rings through all our 

land ; 
And every true man's arm is lifted now, 
To guard our Southland ; and shall I remain, 
In faint security, with craven heart. 
Barter for base-browed ease, the lifted front 
Of manhood, in the peril of our peace ? 
Two voices called, my country and my home. 

Ruth ! my wife ! but Him, Who made us, 

knows 
The struggle sore to tell which voice to heed. 
For the strong arm I meant to be your shield. 
Could not be nerveless, in Virginia's need ; 
And that it might not blindly, traitor prove 
To either cause, my country or my hearth, 

1 multiplied its strength, for many a day. 
In your behalf, to fortify our home 
Against the season, I must dedicate 

Unto my country. So the long, dark days 
Are shielded all from want. Then, while I 
give 



JOHN GILDART. 23 

My arm in battle for our brave old land, 
No thought of any dear one needing it, 
Shall steal its strength. And now, my home 

secure, 
I listen to the other voice that called 
Against my hearthstone, and in answer, — 

go." 
Kuth's voice that died in her first terror, 

rose 
To meet John's troubled gaze, that spite of 

all 
His courage-covered words, sought her reply, 
To give them life. As though his eyes 

asked: "Must 
I go ? " her tones rode over sobs to say : 
"I cannot bid you stay." The father laid 
A feeble hand that met the mother's touch 
In silent blessing on the bended head ; 
And all the long contested doubts were done. 

Now came the busy, thoughtful care of all, 



JOHN GILD ART. 24 

The soldier's needs ; and Ruth bowed low 
Unto the shadow weighing down her heart, 
And took her part in brave activity. 
Oh that to-morrow ! when he would be gone. 
Oh those to-morrows ! when he came no 

more. 
They crowded round, like dread and ghostly 

forms, 
To chill her purpose and her courage slay. 
trembling hands ! that steady seek to 

grow. 
In loving last remembrances. O love ! 
So fearful to behold yourself in truth. 
As one might dread the mirror, when disease 
Had blotted recognition out. night ! 
Whose long dark hours, so heavy-hearted, 

crushed 
Out sleep, outweighing rest, you bring at 

length, 
The morning, mocking with its heartless 

smile, 




S !>) 



w 



JOHN GII.DART. 25 

The farewell, falling on the little home, 
The doom of all its joys. 

A thousand dawns 
Seemed coming o'er the crests, when day 

began ; 
And through the autumn glory of the hills, 
And o'er the path that led a golden way 
To the bright valley, John rode slowly down 
And went to battle. 

Half way down the hill, 
He paused, a backward glance bringing again 
The dear home to his heart, he sadly knelt ; 
And like an ancient High Priest, offered up 
His sacrifice ; not tithe, but best and all, 
The treasury of simple life and love. 

God ! Who made us. Thou canst rate 
Our shallow strength and sorrow's 
might ; 

For Thou, our Father, Thou art great ; 
And we are helpless in Thy sight. 



JOHN GII.DART. 26 

We lift the fainting will to Thee 

That falls beneath life's dread alarms ; 

Thy strength must shelter it and we 
Eest in Thy mercy's mighty arms. 

My little home ! it is so small 
A spot upon Thy great world's breast, 

That eyes less tender would not fall 
Upon it ; Thine on it shall rest. 

God ! when I am far away 

In battle, in Thy guardian sight, 

1 leave my home ; there let it stay. 
Safe in Thy mercy and Thy might. 

All through the empty hours, day by day, 
Kuth sought beyond the ethered distance 

some 
Reprieve from that dull death, that seemed 

to cling 
About her, deadening every sense ; and all 



JOHN GILD ART. 27 

The autumn heights a desolation made. 
How fare the days whose weight o'erpress 

our strength ? 
How speed they, when our fainting lives 

refuse 
To give them motion ? 'Tis an impetus, 
Beyond, above our power, impels the 

hours. 
Too sorrow- laden, to be borne alone ; 
And in divinely secret way, they slip 
Into the great, devouring past ; for when 
The soul is sick with anguish, blankness 

comes 
Like merciful unconsciousness to pain. 
And so Ruth's days took their own time and 

passed ; 
While all her household claims were vaguely 

heard 
And answered ; as the sick man takes his 

draught, 
Accepting it as portion of his dream. 



JOHN GILDART. 28 

"When its hope is dead 
And its lustre fled, 
The heart has a memoried, ghostly crown ; 
For the sky will hold 
The sunset gold, 
"When the golden sun has drifted down. 

"When music that filled 

Life's sunshine is stilled, 
A shadowy tone through the night will 
ring ; 

"When the song is dumb. 

And silences come 
The unforgetting echoes will sing. 

Yea ! it passes by ; 

But it cannot die, 
The soul of joy's refulgent rays : 

No sky so dark 

But keeps a spark 
Of splendor from sun-haloed days. 



JOHN GILDART. 29 

Ah ! doubly blest 

The joys that rest 
In benediction on our ways ; 

For the gleams they give 

Shall oft relive 
To haunt and hallow darker days. 

III. 

With brief delay, within the valley town, 
To learn the seat of action, John rode on. 
He saw his native hills, like turrets, lean 
Against the purple ramparts of the sky. 
The autumn air had left its keenest blade 
Upon the heights of home ; and now the faint 
Breath of the lowlands greeted him. The 

fields. 
Fearless of earlier mountain frosts, were yet 
Unharvested. The corn no longer climbed 
In varied, ripening circles round the crests ; 
But spread a level feast unto the far 



JOHN GIIvDART. 30 

Horizon, undulated only when 
The tasselled plains bowed stiffly to the 
wind. 

The mimic canvas city of the camp 
Was all alive with martial, morning stir, 
When on his sober steed, John Gildart came. 
The smile begun at his unmartial air, 
And weary self and steed vanished at sight 
Of the set soldier look upon his face. 
And later, when he stood equipped, in all 
His mountain manhood, not a voice was 

heard 
To question that a brave man came to 

war. 
"Your name?" the Captain said, as brief 

as though 
Words were to him as bread in famine time. 
"John Gildart, sir.'' 

"Your home ? " and when he named 
The hidden hamlet far behind the hills, 



JOHN GIIvDART. 31 

The Captain smiled, forgetting, too, the 

need 
Of saving language, asked : 

" How did you know, 
In that remote retreat, there was a war ? " 
"I heard it on a Court-Day in the town. 
And straightway thought a war must be 

the call 
For every true man's arm ; however far 
He may be from its face ; and if my home 
Was too remote for war to find me, I 
Could find the war ; and. Captain — I am 

here." 
The Captain paused his pen, about to place 
John Gildart in the ranks. One rapid 

glance 
Went searching o'er the mountaineer's tall 

form. 
''You may be color-bearer. Sergeant, see 
To it." A brief review, but still he kept 
John's simple heroism in his mind. 



JOHN GII.DART. 32 

Against the trying days of blood. They 

came. 
In every desperate charge, unshuddering, 
John Gildart and his flag were at the front. 
So once, they told, when bullet-pierced, his 

leg 
Hung lifeless down, he caught a musket up, 
From a dead comrade, on it, staff -like, leaned 
And flung his fearless flag. 

And when they said, 
Those solemn surgeons in the hospital, 
The color-bearer's marching days were o'er. 
They reckoned not the day, when next they 

marched, 
John Gildart and his flag still led the front ; 
The color-bearer's step a little halt. 
But not one halt in his high-beating heart. 

Thus nigh a year, busy with blood, had 

passed, 
Yet not a message came to him from Euth, 



JOHN GILDART. 33 

No echo from the home so far behind 
The azure-distanced hills. Her thought be- 
came 
The clinging comrade of his waking hours, 
The centre of his dreams. Still patient, 

hoped ; 
Remembering the well-filled barn ; nor 

dreamed 
Of danger possible, after the hours 
He filled with loving toil, forearming her, 
He surely thought, against all coming harm. 
No neighbor came from that sequestered spot. 
And to the simple dweller of the hills 
The winged mail was all a mystery. 
And yet, his heart cried out, in breathing- 
space 
Of battles, for a word from Euth ; but then. 
He hushed it with the hope of that near day. 
When battles done, and new peace sweeter 

grown, 
In lurid light of unforgotten strife. 
3 



JOHN GII.DART. 34 

tender blindness ! that our vision veils 
And sightless, smites the future searching 

eyes. 
hope ! forecasting in a golden guise, 
The days beyond, we cannot call our own. 

The year had almost wound its circle when, 
One autumn eve, John sat before his tent, 
In the short silence of the frenzied field. 
Beyond him stretched the recent battle- 
ground, 
With all its dead unburied. Here and there, 
The cannon stood, like iron memories 
Of that dread day's fatality. And John, 
Turning his carnage-sickened thoughts, from 

all 
War's thronging horrors, let them rest on 

Ruth. 
*'My wife ! Thank God ! so far away and 

safe 
In that dear home that seems like Paradise, 



JOHN GII.DART. 35 

After a day like this. I never look 
On battles but I think of Ruth and say : 
Thank God ! she is so far away and safe ! " 

Just then a shadow fell across the light, 
Grown feeble in the dying of the day. 
With glad surprise, John saw the face 
Of his next neighbor in his mountain home ; 
As though his yearning thought had con- 
jured up, 
Like incantation, forms familiar to 
That dear and distant spot. Then scarce 

could John 
Give greeting to his neighbor, till he sought 
Tidings of Ruth. 

"And Ruth, my wife, is well 
And happy and the little home is safe ? " 
The neighbor's voice was stayed as though 

it felt 
The wound it gave. ' ' She's had sore trouble 
since 



JOHN GILDART. 36 

You left us, John." The color-bearer 

blanched. 
Trouble to Ruth ! after he strove so long 
Forearming her. Never, by battle shock, 
Was John's strong heart so shaken as it nov\r 
Sank at his neighbor's words. His pleading 

look 
Asked for the more, his voice refused to 

seek. 
"The old folks," said the mountaineer, and 

paused 
Before the blow, " 'tis better quickly told, 
They died two months ago ; but one short 

week 
Between their going. Then the barn was 

burned. 
Nothing was left of all your harvesting, 
The winter was a hard one even for 
The farmer well provided. Ruth kept on 
With silent courage that right well might 

shame 



JOHN GII.DART. 37 

Many a sturdy man. Your little one 

Grew strong and bright, as though it almost 
throve 

On misery ; and Euth kept bravely on. 

But your girl's heart was stronger than the 
frame 

That held it." Here John's painful breath- 
ing came 

In gasps of agony. Both hands besought 

A speedy close to anguish of suspense. 

" And she is ill, so ill the women drove 

Me down the hills to find and tell you, John. 

The neighbors came to aid Ruth ; but the 
miles 

Between them make their kindly care but 
brief ; 

And hunger, want and death are at your 
door." 

Frenzied with one compelling purpose, John 
Broke from his neighbor's side to find the tent 



JOHN GILDART. 38 

Of his commanding officer. The guard, 
Barring his entrance to the General, 
Gave stern rebuke for breaking on the rest 
The leader sought after that trying day. 
''What matters his permission?" thought 

poor John. 
" He would not grudge me one short visit 

home, 
After my year of fighting ; and he would 
Not— no— he could not— bid me stay, when 

Ruth, 
My wife, so needs me ; and — I cannot wait. 
I came unsought, willing and glad to come. 
But now — God ! my wife !— my Ruth ! 

how can 
I stay ? And when he knows how great her 

need, 
He will not blame me— but I cannot wait." 

And so the watching stars, that night, beheld 
The eager color-bearer and his friend, 



JOHN GII.DART. 39 

As far they left the camp, in distance lost, 
And set their faces to the nearing hills. 

Upon the roll next morn the Adjutant 
Found, " missing," unexplained, beside 

John's name ; 
When days passed on nor brought him back 

to camp, 
Nor search discovered when or why he left, 
The paper, where the swift, condemning pen 
Had laid its fatal stroke, went on its way 
Unto the General ; and as he read, 
Thought of the thinning ranks and of the need 
Of sharp reminders to the failing hearts ; 
And scowled upon the record, where beside 
John Gildart's name, the word "Deserter" 

stood. 

Better than herb or healing ever known 
In doctor's lore, the sight of John's brown 
face, 



JOHN GIIvDART. 40 

An all-subduing remedy to Ruth. 

Her eyes drew in the happy truth, her hands 

Mute witnesses of the white waste of pain, 

Sought over and again their eager proof. 

Supported in that dear security, 

Her shaken spirit sank, from all its toils, 

To slumber velvety. When potent draughts 

Of sleep had roused the stunned vitality, 

John held the strengthening hours with 

many a tale 
Of battle and the angry days of blood. 
While Ruth would lay a chiding hand to bar 
The hasty words that forced their way, when 

John 
Looked on his smoldering barn, the holocaust 
Of all his toilsome hope, the ashen ghost 
Of all the promises of plenty, he 
Created from his busy, thoughtful love. 
Then Ruth would lead the bruised remem- 
brance back 
To restful fancies ; bringing him their boy, 



JOHN GII.DART. 41 

And bidding him behold how sturdily 
The doubting baby feet would tread alone 
Their wavering steps, till John forgot all else, 
Beyond his cottage door ; almost forgot 
How bitter was the taste of trampled hope. 

And now the fragrant steps of spring ascend 
From the soft valleys to the sterner heights. 
Now beats the summer's quickening pulse 

through all 
The grain life of the hills ; and once again 
John Gildart spends his hours of earnest toil 
And gathers wages of the harvest gold. 
Once more the resurrected barn is filled ; 
Once more the promises of plenty guard 
His home ; and Ruth has won back health 

in those 
Dear, helpful days, that brought him to her 

side. 
Up from the valley came his brother's wife, 
Widowed by war and shelterless by fire. 



JOHN GILDART. 42 

And found a tender welcome at Kuth'3 

hearth. 
The last home need now vanquished, loyal 

John 
Turned to that other call, that sacred seemed, 
And kissmg Ruth, went to the battle's front. 

haunting face ! rest long and dwell 
In eyes that look their last on thee. 

O trust ! now taking thy farewell, 
Of all thou never more canst be. 

O stately crests ! bend graciously 
Your beauty to his clinging gaze ; 

That look your homage shall not be 
Again through all your lofty days. 

brave old hills ! close round his heart ; 

And home ! rest in it tenderly ; 
Long years shall pass, ere shall depart 

Such love and loyalty from ye. 



JOHN GII.DART. 43 

IV. 

Three brief November suns had palely set 
And when the fourth arose, John Gildart 

came 
Into the camp. Many a field was fought 
And lost since last he stood in those now thin 
And shrunken ranks. The comrades he had 

known 
Now coldly greeted him ; and marvelling, 
He stood before the grim old General 
While all the camp was busy questioning 
How the deserter had been found at last. 
The General looked at John, then at the page, 
Whereon the stubborn, proof-compelling 

words, 
"Gildart, John, Deserter," stood. 

" And so 
They brought you back ! " 

" I came unsought, unforced." 
The stern commander smiled, or gave the 

ghost 



JOHN GILDART. 44 

Of smiling. "Ah! you thought to throw 

yourself 
Upon our mercy, knowing well that soon, 
Even your mountain refuges must give 
Their hidden traitors up." 

* ' My strong, old hills 
Are not the haunts of traitors ; and their 

heights 
Are brave men's homes," and in John's 

face 
The quick, defending blood uprose. "I am 
No traitor. If I left the war, no call 
On earth, save one could make me leave— 

my wife. 
I swore to stand between her and all harm, 
As long as life. A thousand men were at 
Your call ; but I alone to hear her cry 
Across the hills ; and could I stay, when she. 
My wife, ill and alone, so needed me ? " 
But plead as honestly, as earnestly 
As only honest, earnest John could plead, 



JOHN GIIvDART. 45 

The dread court-martial met. And when he 

told 
His simple story in his heartfelt way, 
They paused, — those solemn judges in that 

court, 
Where stern death seemed presiding officer ; 
And their tribunal, gravely they adjourned, 
For dreary days, to weigh his plea against 
The heavy charge upon him, while to John 
The knowledge seemed at first impossible. 
The truth too hard to bear, that the strong 

trust 
That led him, like a child, away, could mean 
Desertion and a most dishonored doom. 
Ah ! would they never understand, those 

stern. 
Rebuking officers, how all his months 
Of absence held the thought of his return ? 
Desertion ! when he came to war unsought. 
Desertion ! when he only crossed the hills 
To battle against death for Ruth. And so 



JOHN GILDART. 46 

John plead and told his heartfelt history, 

Till hopeless days began to drag all hope 

Out of the earnest spirit ; and until 

The simple story grew too pitiful, 

He almost scorned himself while telling it. 

Why should he speak of that dear home and 

Ruth 
To men who made a treason of his love, 
Desertion of his loyalty ? So thus 
The color-bearer sullen grew and mute. 
The tender story was more coldly told. 
The earnest tone that spoke the faithful will 
And almost turned the rigid law of war, 
Grew passive and indifferent. Could he 
Bring forth his honest heart that judges 

might, 
"With iron words, to silence beat it back ? 
The waning hope that still upheld his hours 
From utter darkness, fainter grew at each 
Adjournment of the court martial ; and still 
They lifted not the heavy charge, nor loosed 



JOHN GILDART. 47 

The fetters that degraded him. Thus, when 
With cruel stroke it came, John's shrunken 

state 
Felt not the hlow that would have crushed 

him down 
In his uplifted past. It fell at length— 
The heavy sentence of his doom to death. 
The merciful delays that strove to break 
The iron letter of the law were o'er ; 
And now no power of tenderness could 

bend 
The rigid penalty that martial law 
Had meted out to John— a coward's fate- 
Death for desertion— and a volley fired, 
At sunset, ten days hence, straight at 
The heart that never held disloyalty. 

The eve of that stern day, John Gildart 

moved 
Up to his prison bars and whispered out 
To the grim sentinel : " May I not send 



JOHN GII.DART. 48 

Home for my wife ? " And when permission 

came, 
Fearing to startle Ruth with cruel news, 
He bade them tell her that the fighting done, 
And he at rest, wished her to come at once 
Without delay to camp. 

Euth Gildart heard 
The summons on her heights one August 

morn ; 
And rising up she took her baby's hand ; 
And happy, side, by side, they walked be- 
neath 
The summer hills to find the camp and John. 
Waited the color-bearer in his cell. 
For that last look, as all that held him now. 
To sight and sound of all that we call — life. 

The pilgrim sun shall sail away 
Over each coming, crystal day — 
Drift down, sweet sun ! 
And fade sweet sky ! 



JOHN GIIvDART. 49 

The race is run 
The goal is nigh. 
In all the ages thou shalt see, 
Forever must I be blind to thee. 

The spring shall speak with timid voice, 
Till summer's richer notes rejoice, — 
Cease, tender song ! 
I touch the deep 
Decline of long 
And toneless sleep. 
Ah ! sweet and soft as thou canst be. 
Forever must I be deaf to thee. 

When call the summer's song and sun, 
'Mid answering hearts, the silent one. 
loving trust ! 
No more reply 
The voiceless dust 
Gives thy keen cry. 
How swift and strong that cry may be, 
Forever must I be dumb to thee. 
4 



JOHN GII.DART. 50 

V. 

Oh it was a wonderful, butterfly world ! 

How rich he would be could he hold 
In the grasp of his tiny arm, unfurled, 

All the wealth of their wings of gold I 

And it was a wonderful blossom world ! 

Must he hurry and say good-bye 
To the laughing faces of flowers uncurled 

At his feet that over them fly ? 

And oh ! what a song that robin sings ! 

And oh I how the river can run ! 
How the sky outspreads its fleecy wings, 

To melt in the molten sun ! 

So chattered on Ruth's boy in that new world 
Beneath the hills as swift they journeyed on, 
With childhood's artless avarice, 'mid all 
The largesse of the summer bountiful. 
And happy in his happiness, Ruth stayed 



JOHN GILD ART. 51 

Her eager feet, to watch his breathless chase 
Of butterfly and bird ; and held him near 
Her heart, when tired out of fruitless hunt. 
Then all the summer shone within her soul, 
As nearer came the welcome that they 

sought, 
She and her boy, from that strong heart that 

held 
Them in its tender strength. She marked 

his grace, 
Her sturdy boy, and proud uprose the 

thought, 
How true an heir he was to all the health. 
The great hills' heritage ; how true a son 
To him, a mountain manhood had so dow- 
ered. 
And oh, the warm, bright August in her 

heart. 
When they should meet, John and his boy, 

and she 
Stand in the glowing summer of their love. 



JOHN GIIvDART. 52 

They climbed, one eve, a gentle hill and 

stood 
An hour before the sunset, on its crest. 
"0 mamma! see! the soldiers and the 

tents ! " 
Cried little John, with merry clapping 

hands. 
Euth sank in silent, prayerful gratitude ; 
For there, down in the valley meadow just 
Beneath them was the camp. An hour be- 
fore 
The sunset. In the amber light of eve, 
The white tents rose and fell in snowy 

mounds : 
While all the armed ranks, by distance 

dwarfed, 
Were but as dragon flies, invisible. 
Save for their glitter. Then a bugle tone, 
The spirit of a sound that died and rose 
Again, before it perished, came to them 
An hour before the sunset. 



JOHN GII.DART. 53 

Ruth sat down, 
Eemembering the many miles she toiled ; 
And found the weariness she had not found 
In former haste. But, now, there was the 

camp 
And John ; so she would rest an hour and go 
To him, with no sign of her toilsome way 
To hang about her and to mar her joy. 
Yes ! she would rest this hour, thinkino- 

how long 
The twilight to the highlands clings ; its 

soul, 
Lingering and lost, among the hills of eve. 
So rested tranquilly and watched her boy, 
This hour before the setting of the sun. 
The moments glided onward, drop by drop. 
The downward sun was lessening, step by 

step, 
The distance of the day. No sound came up 
To break the heart of silence on the hill. 
Save when her boy would shout aloud to find 



JOHN GILDART. 54 

Aud follow some belated butterfly. 

Now he came sobbing to his mother's side, 

And showed her how his gaudy prize was 

crushed 
And beautiless within his conquering grasp. 
Possession's fatal blow to all the grace, 
Illusion gives to credulous desire. 
Ruth comforted her boy, and checked his 

tears, 
And kissed away their traces, bringing back 
The baby dimples, John would love to see. 
And now rose up to seek him. 

As she stood, 
Choosing the gentlest path, for baby feet, 
A cannon poured its single, solemn note 
Upon the empty air ; and then she saw 
The sun pass down beyond horizon's bar. 
The light was taken prisoner by the dark ; 
And the deep voice had bidden day farewell. 
The hour had passed. It was the sunset 

gun. 



JOHN GILDART. 55 

But half the hill descended, Ruth stood still 
To watch a sudden movement in the camp ; 
And there beyond the tents she saw an open 

space, 
Where f our-and-twenty ready soldiers shone, 
Forming a single far- outstretching line 
That glittered like a silver chain. 

Beyond 
The space, facing their guns, there stood 

erect 
A single figure that might be a man ; — 
Ruth could not tell, in that long stretch of 

sight. 
She paused to puzzle over it ; — and then — 
The sudden lifting of a shining row 
Of muskets — then a volley's rattling fire — 
That sounded almost sweet to Ruth, who 

stood 
And heard its softened echo wondering. 
Then silence wavering, like a sob grown 

still. 



JOHN GILDART. 56 

As we pause to leave the day at eve, 
And watch it lovingly out of sight, 

A deeper day may steal away, 
And life drift down to a deeper night. 

As we bid good-bye to each sunset sky, 
In our sigh unconscious tears may dwell ; 

All the crimson and gold that life can 
hold, 
May be fading away their own farewell. 

sunset sky ! days that die ! 
Ere ever again ye lift the night, 

Beyond the brink of dawn we sink. 
Beyond the borderlands of light. 

VI. 

A shadow at his door, the General 
Looked up and met an eager, searching gaze. 
A woman stood before the tent. Her dress 
Told of her mountain home, as did her high, 




g to 



JOHN GILD ART. 57 

Free grace of movement. From her face, 
The bonnet, falling back, a picture showed 
Of hope sincerest. From the grave, blue 

eyes, 
The shining soul of happiness went forth 
With every glance. A little rosy boy, 
A blossom of the sunhigh hills, was at 
Her side. 

" I came to seek my husband, sir." 
It might have been, "my king," so proud 

the tone. 
" What is your name ?" 
"Ruth Gildart, sir." 

"And his? 
No— not— " 

" My husband is John Gildart, sir, 
A color-bearer in your ranks, I came 
Across the hills as quickly as I could. 
They said he wanted me ; that he was free 
From fighting now." 

" Yes ! yes ! " the General said ; 



JOHN GILDART. 58 

And whispered to his pitying soul : " Yes 1 

Free! 
Forever free ! as one who hears the last 
Command ; obeys it ; while obedience 
Is death." 

'' They said that I could come to him ; 
And you, kind sir, will tell me where to find 
My husband now." The General's stern 

eyes 
Fell from her gaze and sought the fatal 

page, 
Whereon his hand had signed John Gildart's 

doom. 
He looked at Ruth. Then started up ; and 

then sat down. 

" What did you say — John Gildart 

— why 
There must be some mistake ; and are you 

sure. 
Quite sure — that was — what is your hus- 
band's name ? " 



JOHN GIIvDART. 59 

''John Gildart, sir;" the voice was very 

sweet ; 
Aud sweeter still the puzzled face that 

turned 
To answer him. Again he looked. A great, 
Strong pity stifled him. How could he tell 
This happy girl, that out beyond the camp, 
A still, dark soldier lay, with lifted face 
Sightless to the stars ? Oh God ! how could 
She smile and ask in that proud voice, 
For him ? 

" Will you not tell me, sir, where I 
Can find John Gildart ? " But the General 
Shrank from the tender eyes that smote his 

soul. 
Ruth sat and waiting his reply, she faced 
The officer. He brought a sterner tone 
To battle with the pity that well nigh 
Had conquered him. 

" Why should you wish to see 
So cowardly a man, as we have proved 



JOHN GILDART. 60 

Your husband was ? He left the camp, with- 
out 
A furlough, and on some pretext that yovi 
Were dying ; and it was the very eve 
Of our most fatal battle ; but he saved 
His coward's life to lose his honest name ; 
And coward and deserter now is proved." 
Ruth Gildart rose. She strove in vain to 

speak ; 
But the fierce pain smote voice and utterance 

dumb. 
A million cruel echoes seemed to pour 
Into her hot indignant heart, the words 
The General had hurled at her. Her John 
A coward ! a deserter ! And must she 
Stand silent, in the face of calumny 
Like this ? She strove to speak. A little hand 
Tugged at her dress. Her baby's pleading 

tone : 
" mamma ! come and see ! Please, mamma, 
come ! 



JOHN GII.DART. 6i 

I want to see the soldiers. Here they 

come ! " 
Ruth blindly followed, glad to leave the 

tent 
That seemed a sinful place, since she had 

heard 
The slanderous words ; and glad to breathe 

again 
The sinless air. 

The night was nearer now 
Than when she reached the camp. 
She stood in doubt 
A moment, wondering. And where was 

John ? 
Only within his arms could she forgive, 
Forget that moment's cruelty. Now must 
She hasten on to seek him ere the night 
Made her search hopeless, in that tented 

town. 
Tent after tent, she peered into, and sighed 
To find no face like John's. Her baby's step 



JOHN GIIvDART. 62 

Grew heavy as her heart with fruitless 

search. 
"Where is my soldier papa?" 'twixt two 

sobs 
The question came. "Hush! baby dear, 

for soon 
We shall see papa." Through her words of 

cheer 
The undertone of disappointment came. 
The rows of tents stopped here, and still 
No trace of John. 

She looked beyond the camp, 
Into the open space, where she had watched 
The shining muskets, just an hour ago. 
The field was quiet now. The sound of 

arms 
And tread of soldiers faded to the peace 
Of camp at twilight. Still Ruth wandered 

on. 
A group, small, dark, almost indefinite, 
Stood at the meadow's limit. To her gaze, 



JOHN GIIvDART. 63 

Their attitude of quiet waiting seemed 

To draw her near ; and as she moved, her 

steps 
Were driven onward, by some impetus 
Unseen, but more than felt. 

Breathless, she paused, 
Without their circle. On its edge, surprised, 
The kindly soldier faces greeted her. 
A heavy silence hung upon the men. 
And almost hushed the question on her lips. 
No answer came, as Ruth looked eagerly. 
From soldier unto soldier, paling there, 
Before her question, as they had not paled, 
Before the battle's shock. 

The solemn beat 
Of rugged words, the soldier-preacher's tone 
Was broken as Ruth's voice arrested him ; 
While every man started and looked aghast. 
To hear John Gildart sought for at that 

hour. 
And every moistened eye instinctive fell 



JOHN GILDART. 64 

Upon the ready grave, its waiting guest, — 
The form that blanket-covered slept, 
Silent and veiled and nameless, while she 

spoke. 
But in that shuddering pause, the waiting 

blow 
That strong men could not strike, a baby 

hand 
At last sent sudden down ; for little John, 
Peering about the soldiers and their arms, 
Touching with tiny fingers, swords and 

guns 
Came to the nameless burden that was laid 
Before the open grave. With playful touch 
The fearless baby fingers lifted up 
The awful drapery of death. Ruth sprang 
To chide her boy ; and drawing near she saw 
The form and features of the unveiled dead. 
An instant's anguished recognition came. 
Her search was ended and John Gildart 

found. 



JOHN GILDART. 65 

Shriek after shriek, to shuddering echoes 

tore 
The heart of peace that beat upon the 

night ; 
And all the soul of starry silence fled. 

As after autumn's storms, to woodland 
comes 

The winter's snowy hush, on Ruth's wild 
grief, 

The softness fell of white unconsciousness. 

From that deep sleep, she rose to walk beside 

The still, tall form, upon the wagon borne ; 

The stalwart color-bearer's last sad march. 

And so she brought him home across the 
hills. 

Oh I anguish of that second " coming home " 

To Euth, remembering the happy first. 

There rested he amid the solemn heights ; 

And there Ruth dwelt through all her wid- 
owed days. 
S 



JOHN GII.DART. 66 

A shadow over all the noble hills ; 
A shadow over all the little home ; 
A shadow over all her empty life. 

I. 

O hills ! that held his heart, now keep 
His spirit 'mid your dauntless crests ; 

And prouder rise, while he shall sleep ; 
And statelier that here he rests. 

II. 

Let not the lying shot that hushed 
His heart, a living witness be. 

loyal hills ! the life it crushed, 

Was yours, the steadfast and the free. 

III. 

And silent be the fatal word, 
By which he fell ; but tenderly. 

From crest to crest, be clearly heard 
His brave and gentle fealty. 



JOHN GILDART. 67 

IV. 

Then rest ! strong heart ! in thy home 
hills : 

Thy mountain mother's memory 
Claims all thy lofty life and fills 

Her unforgetting heights with thee. 

FINIS. 



REUNITED, 



(■Written after the Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1878.) 

Purer than thy own pure snow, 

Nobler than thy mountain's height, 
Deeper than thy ocean's flow, 
Stronger than thy own proud might, 
O Northland ! to thy sister land, 
Was late thy mercy's generous deed and 
grand. 

Nigh twice ten years the sword was 
sheathed ; 
Its mist of green o'er battle-plain 
For nigh two decades spring had breathed ; 
And yet the crimson life-blood stain 
From passive swords had never paled, 
68 



REUNITED. 69 

From fields where all were brave and soeqb 
had failed. 

Between the Northland, Bride of Snow, 
And Southland, brightest Sun's fair 
Bride, 
Swept, deepening ever in its flow, 
The stormy wake in war's dark tide. 
No hand might clasp across the tears 
And blood and anguish of four deathless 
years. 

When summer, like a rose in bloom. 

Had blossomed from the bud of spring, 
Oh ! who could deem the dews of doom 
Upon the blushing lips could cling ? 
Who could believe its fragrant light 
Would e'er be freighted with the breath of 
blight ? 

Yet o'er the Southland crept the spell 
That e'en from out its brightness spread, 



REUNITED. 70 

And prostrate, powerless, she fell, 
Rachel-like, amid her dead. 
Her bravest, fairest, purest, best, 
The waiting grave would welcome as its 
guest. 



The Northland, strong in love and great, 

Forgot the stormy days of strife ; 
Forgot that souls with dreams of hate 
Or unforgiveness e'er were rife. 
Forgotten was each thought and hushed. 
Save she was generous and her foe was 
crushed. 

No hand might clasp from land to land ! 
Yea ! there was one to bridge the tide ; 
For at the touch of Mercy's hand, 
The North and South stood side by side. 
The Bride of Snow, the Bride of Sun, 
In Charity's espousals are made one. 



REUNITED. 71 

*' Thou givest back my sons again," 

The Southland to the Northland cries. 
"For all my dead, on battle-plain, 
Thou biddest my dying now uprise. 
I still my sobs, I cease my tears, 
For thou hast recompensed the anguished 
years." 

Blessings on thy every wave ! 

Blessings on thy every shore ! 
Blessings that from sorrows save ! 
Blessings giving more and more ! 
For all thou gavest thy sister land, 
Northland ! in thy generous deed and 
grand ! 



ST. PATRICK'S BEACON FIRE. 



The ship by Innis Phadruig stands, the Isle 
That Patrick's name has hallowed since the 

Saint 
Trod as a benediction on its sands. 
Then many an isle and little port and bay, 
The Saint's ship touched, till where the bend- 
ing Boyne 
Bows till abased, self-lost, within the sea. 
They tarry. Forty days the watching crew, 
With fast and prayer, held the golden hours. 
O vernal promise ! mingling with the tide 
Of Patrick's gospel, filling all the land, 
As sun and song and blossom fill the spring. 

On Tara's Height, a glory yet ungleamed. 
This Resurrection Morn. The mystic fire 
That fed the Druids' faith, by Loagare's tent 
72 



ST. PATRICK'S BEACON FIRE. 73 

Shall have another mystery. Eternal steps 
Are on thy hills, O Erne ! to-day. 
Thy Saint, thy Message comes ; and never- 
more 
Shall fade the flower springing on his track, 
The Flower of Faith, his Erin wears as full, 
As fragrant still, as when it leaped up free, 
On green Magh-Breagh, that Easter memor- 
able, 
In that bright year, Loagare was King and 

held 
O'Nial's throne, his grandsire famed in song 
Of bards, " O'Nial of the Nine Hostages." 
The Court at Tara met. The sacred fire, 
The sovereign's sole right was blazing forth. 
The royal flame, proclaiming far and near, 
The Council of the Nobles and the King. 
And instant death was his who durst to light 
A beacon fire, in sight of Tara's Hill, 
While burned the royal blaze and Council 
met. 



ST. PATRICK'S BEACON FIRE. 74 

" But see ! " the Druids cry unto the King, 
''Yon fire of sacrilege." Upon the banks 
Of Boyne, a tent. Before its open door 
The daring light of beacon fire forbid 
The limits of the Land of Breagh. 

''A sign ! 
O King ! " the Druids wail, '' a fateful sign ! 
Bid yonder blaze be instant quenched. What 

say 
The prophecies ? A deadly and dark word 
For thee, Loagare. 'When burns a blaze 

before 
The beacon of the King, the hand that held 
The daring torch shall hold thy land as well. 
And never, age on age, shall pass away, 
The power of him whose beacon burns be- 
fore 
The beacon of the King. ' Forevermore ! " 
The Druids wail, "unless he instant die. 
Shall he be sovereign of our land of Erne ; 
And never other King, the Erseland own," 



ST. PATRICK'S BEACON FIRE. 75 

So King Loagare bade hasty messengers 
Summon the builder of the impious fire 
Before the Court and Council of the Druids. 

" Let none arise ! " the monarch gave com- 
mand, 
As all the Court impelled to reverence, 
Moved at the coming of the gentle Saint. 
Close after him, in loving humbleness, 
A noble convert followed, Sessnen's son, 
Benignus, young and eager in new faith. 
Leaving the heirdom of all Meath, to join 
His steps with Milcho's stranger slave. 

But Ere, 
The tall, strong son of Dego, rose up straight 
And bowed in Patrick's sight ; the impetus 
Within, impelling stronger than the word 
Of King Loagare, forbidding reverence. 

Then all forgotten was the daring fire 

Of sacrilege, as Court and King and Queen, 



ST. PATRICK'S BEACON FIRE. 76 

Druid and Bard and Warrior owned the spell 
Of that strange Message, captives to the 

faith. 
Dubtach, the master soul of song, the bard 
By King Loagare, the best beloved, swift 

taught 
His Druid harp, the melody of Christ. 
And never fell, in battle, fierce and fast. 
The vanquished from the Irish swords, as 

fell 
The ancient creed of Erne, at Patrick's word. 
Just as the land, the dear and green sweet 

land 
He loved, laid off the winter's snow, at touch 
Of spring's first smiling, finding emerald 

garb 
And richest gems beneath, so fell from 

Erne, 
As swift away, the Druids and their day. 
So melted fast into the warm, true light 
Of Christ's own love, the little Isle of Saints. 



ST. PATRICK'S BEACON FIRE. 77 

that first Easter Morn on Tara's Hill ! 
springtime ! in that ancient shamrock 

land. 
We tread the centuries to meet again. 
We bring the picture back to loyal faith— 
The Court of King Loagare, on Magh- 

Breagh's plain — 
The witchery of spring— the song of thrush— 
In hawthorne hedge or hid in ivy wall— 
We fill the picture of that Easter Morn— 
And Patrick coming with the fair, young day. 

But lo ! a stronger voice comes thrusting 

through 
The widening waste of ages— stronger still, 
The voice of prophecy. O wailing priests 
Of Baal ! the fire of Druid faith has paled 
Before the greater light in Patrick's hand. 
Still may your wail grow into prophecy 
Fulfilled ; and Patrick's daring fire before 
The beacon of the Council of Loagare, 



L.ofC. 



ST. PATRICK'S BEACON FIRE. 78 

Proclaim another Everlasting King, 
Our Erin's only monarch ; and His reign 
Shall never perish ; for our land of Erne 
Is Christ's own kingdom, won that Easter 

Morn, 
For faith eternal, by her deathless Saint. 



IViAY B lyutj 



